


No Joking

by Tallulah_Rasa



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Highlander: The Series, Leverage, NCIS, Star Trek: The Original Series, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Good Place (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Multiple Crossovers, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallulah_Rasa/pseuds/Tallulah_Rasa
Summary: A series of unrelated ficlets loosely based on the "Into a bar..." challenge, in which fandoms cross, and everybody needs a drink.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	No Joking

**Author's Note:**

> These are mostly old, and somewhat silly, but I feel we can all use some inconsequential silliness these days.  
> If you're looking for a particular fandom, the first bit is Leverage/Avengers, the second is NCIS/Avengers, the third is SG:SG-1/The Good Place, the fourth is Highlander/Buffy, the fifth is ST:TOS/Avengers (really, just Scotty and Tony Stark), and the last is Avengers/GotG.

**1\. It Goes Without Saying**

_In which a spy walks into a brew pub. Avengers/Leverage, Tony, Natasha, Eliot, just post-CA:TWS. (Which is to say, there's quite a lot Tony doesn't know at this point.) Warning for quite a lot of f-bombs, and this one is on the angsty side. Google says "zhweleznyy chelovek" is Russian for "Iron Man."_

Natasha watched the door for a while from a safe and well-hidden distance, but she knew even while she watched that she’d eventually go in. She was too exhausted not to, too tired of running, too tired of being exposed and alone. And, in the end, despite all her years of training, she trusted Tony Stark.

Now, of course, he’d know that, but it couldn’t be helped. And, practically speaking, he might be the one she could trust now, after the clusterfuck of the last few days. Oh, there was still Clint, who was in no way a Hydra stooge, and apparently Phil was less dead than she’d been led to believe, but they weren’t around right now. And even if they were, Stark – _Tony_ – was, she suspected, the only one who could truly understand how she felt.

The only one who felt the same way.

She hated him a little for that, for knowing, but she was also more than a little grateful for the heavily encrypted text message that had led her to this address. And for the untraceable Black AmEx card he’d had Happy pass her outside the Senate hearings.

Finally it was eventually, and she squared her shoulders and darted across the nearly empty street, through the late afternoon drizzle and into the warmth of the microbrewery.

“Thought you were never going to come in,” a gravelly voice to her right said as soon as she was through the door. She wheeled, a knife in each hand, but the speaker stood his ground, raising his hands to show he was unarmed.

Not, she realized, that that mattered.

“Agent Romanoff. Always a pleasure,” he said.

She let out a breath and sheathed her knives. “Spencer,” she acknowledged.

A black guy and a skinny blonde at the bar stood down.

“He’s in the back,” Eliot said, gesturing with his head, and keeping his hands where she could see them. “I’ll take you.”

“How exactly do you know him?” Natasha asked.

Eliot raised his eyebrows.

“I thought he was out of the business,” Natasha said.

“He helped me when I needed help,” Eliot said quietly. “After that – well, I can understand choosing a new path. And how it feels when the new path leads you down the same old—”

“We are NOT,” Natasha bit out, “talking about it.”

Eliot nodded, and then gestured toward the back room again.

This time, Natasha followed him.

Tony was sitting in an otherwise empty room, nursing a drink from a table with a good view of the door. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved dark tee, and though the room was dim he was sporting a pair of dark glasses.

Natasha wondered what she’d see if he took them off, and was glad when he didn’t.

“We’ll be wanting vodka,” Tony said to Eliot. “Bring the bottle.”

“I--” Eliot began.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Tony said.

“Thank God,” Natasha said.

“Whatever,” Eliot said, rolling his eyes. He set three shot glasses and a bottle on the table.

Tony filled the glasses, downed one, took a second, and handed the third to Natasha. They clinked glasses before downing their drinks. Natasha looked at Eliot, who obediently poured refills.

They sat for a while in silence, occasionally downing and refilling their drinks.

“The info dump …,” Tony finally began.

Natasha gave the tiniest nod. “At the time, I…well. And I haven’t heard from--”

“He’s fine,” Tony said. “Well, safe. The grappling arrows work well, apparently.”

Natasha relaxed infinitesimally.

“I suppose ‘fine’ might be a--”

“Not talking about it,” Natasha said tightly.

“Thank God,” Tony said.

“I’ve got--” Eliot began.

“Not. Talking. About. It,” Tony and Natasha said in unison.

“A bottle of Stoli.” Eliot finished, producing a bottle from…somewhere. 

“That’s expensive stuff,” Natasha said, eyes narrowing.

“I’m a billionaire,” Tony said, waving a hand as if to say, See?

“On the house,” Eliot said. “I’m going now.”

“Well,” Tony said after he’d left. “Here’s to--”

“Not talking about it,” Natasha said.

They drank steadily, and in silence, except for the occasional burp from Natasha, and the syncopated tapping of Tony checking his phone.

Tony finally turned his glass over. He did not appear to be even slightly drunk. “Well, fuck,” he said distinctly. “Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Well put,” Natasha said. She turned Tony’s glass back over and poured them both another round.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Tony said.

“Drink, zhweleznyy chelovek,” Natasha said.

Tony did.

“Fuck,” Natasha said.

“Fucking Fury,” Tony added. He pulled off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and looked across the table, directly into Natasha’s eyes. “I had no idea, Nat. Absolutely no--”

“I know,” Natasha said.

“Fuck,” Tony said.

Natasha downed her drink. “I thought I was – I thought my ledger – I thought I was on the right side, for once. I thought I chose, and I chose right.”

“I know,” Tony said. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Natasha said.

“Me, either,” Tony said. “You want dinner?”

“I could eat,” Natasha said. “But I should go; Steve’s going to be looking for--”

“I’ve got it covered,” Tony said. “JARVIS will have it narrowed down in a couple of hours, and I should have a replacement pair of wings for Wilson by then, too. You’ve got time. And Portland has some great seafood.”

“I’m sure,” Natasha said, nodding her acknowledgement of the rest of Tony’s little speech. “But going out might be a problem. My face is almost as well-known as yours, now.”

“Spencer’s a hell of a chef,” Tony said.

“Should I ask how you know that?”

“You could try asking him,” Tony said. “But he talks about as much as you do.”

“That, I knew,” Natasha said.

Eliot stuck his head in the door. “Bouillabaisse upstairs in ten,” he said.

Natasha looked at him, and then at Tony, and then back at Eliot. “How’d you know--?” she began.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Eliot said, and ducked out again.

“Works for me,” Tony said, standing up. “You?”

“Yes,” Natasha said. 

“Tomorrow…” Tony began, but he let the thought go unfinished.

“We’ll deal with tomorrow tomorrow,” Natasha said firmly.

“As long as we don’t have to talk about it,” Tony said as they headed out of the room., and he shut the light.

"You took the words,” Natasha said, “right out of my mouth.

**2\. Legal Aid**

_In which an NCIS agent walks out of a bar. Avengers/NCIS, Tony, Natasha, Bruce, DiNozzo, Ducky. Who knows where or why? (Though this is an everybody-gets-along incarnation of the Avengers, so it might be 2012.) I assume Natasha and Ducky knew each other back in the day — possibly when Ducky was Illya Kuryakin — and that they keep in touch. The "into a bar" connection is pretty flimsy here, but both Tonys probably do need a drink._

“No, I’m glad you called,” Ducky said to Natasha, "and I’m happy to help, but the counter-agent we need will have to be brought in by a…well, an agent. But in the meantime, I believe this will afford some temporary assistance. As you probably know, cannibis has historically had many medical applications related to—“

“This is good stuff,” Bruce interrupted woozily from his perch on the examining table, where he was lolling against Tony. An assortment of medical equipment stood to one side, while Natasha hovered on the other.

“We can see that, big guy,” Tony said fondly, patting Bruce on the back.

“You’re sure that will keep him…contained?” Natasha fretted, looking between Ducky and Bruce.

“I think that stuff would keep Godzilla contained,” Tony said.

“Not shiny,” Bruce solemnly observed.

“My personality always sparkles,” Tony said. “But I don’t have the armor on at the moment, that’s correct.”

“Pity,” Ducky said from the other side of the table, where he was calmly detangling an IV line. “I would have liked to see that. You know, armor has been used in one form or another since—“

This time he was interrupted by three short raps on the door, followed by the entrance of a tall, good-looking man in an extremely wet rain coat. “Ducky, I have to say, you have my curiosity piqued. I mean, what with pulling me from a very pleasant evening at my favorite watering hole, and then a secret after-hours meeting,” the man said as he hurried in, pulling off the raincoat to reveal a sharp suit, “and wanting my blood, which is like that scene in—“

He stopped as he took in the assembled group, and then he blinked twice and smiled. “On second thought, not like that scene at all,” he finished. “DiNozzo. Tony,” he added.

“My dear boy,” Ducky said, “I _am_ glad of your assistance. Dr. Banner here is need of antibodies only you can provide.”

DiNozzo was already rolling up his sleeve. “Glad to help,” he said, “though Dr. Banner looks like he’s more in need of…well, I can’t really say, being a law enforcement agent, and all. Not that I don’t trust you, Ducky, but—“

“Trust me,” Tony said. “The fact that Bruce isn’t feeling any pain doesn’t mean he isn’t…uh, feeling pain. And the, uh,” he went on, gesturing to Bruce, who was holding onto Tony’s hand and staring at it in fascination, “is medicinal. Really, really necessary. You wouldn’t believe how necessary.” He extricated his hand from Bruce’s grip, and held it out. “Stark, by the way. Also Tony. And this is--”

“Natalie Rushman,” Natasha said, simpering just a little. 

DiNozzo smiled broadly. “Nice alias,” he said. “And also nice—“

“She can kill a man with a paperclip,” Tony said helpfully before DiNozzo could get too far.

“Really? How many ways?” Di Nozzo asked, eyes alight with interest. “I have a partner who—“

“If we could get started,” Ducky interrupted.

“She’s Mossad,” DiNozzo continued, settling onto a chair next to the examining table and extending his arm to Ducky. “So, how’d Dr. Banner get the plague?”

“It’s not the plague,” Ducky corrected absently, “though it does bear a remarkable resembl—“

“Zigged when he should have zagged,” Tony said. “How ‘bout you?”

“I got it through the mail,” DiNozzo said, wincing just slightly as Ducky inserted a needle into his arm. “Hey, isn’t Dr. Banner the one who…?”

Tony grinned.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Natasha asked sharply.

“You tell me,” DiNozzo said, peering at Bruce, who was counting his toes, though not very accurately.

“I think a direct transfusion would be best,” Ducky said.

“You know,” Tony said, “I knew an Anthony DiNozzo, back in the day.”

“On the party circuit? That would have been my dad,” DiNozzo said.

“Nice suits,” Tony said as Ducky hooked a line between the other Tony and Bruce.

“He was partial to Armani, when he wasn’t broke,” DiNozzo agreed.

“So…how’d you end up as a cop?” Tony asked.

“How’d you end up as Iron Man?” DiNozzo countered, though he was still smiling.

“Some terrorists blew up a transport I was riding in, using weapons I designed, and then held me hostage for three months,” Tony said.

DiNozzo blinked. “I just took an exam.”

Tony nodded. “Your way was probably easier.”

"I didn’t know you could recognize the easy way, Stark," Natasha said, though she was smiling, too. 

"Easy isn’t interesting," Bruce announced, suddenly — if briefly — focusing on the conversation. He screwed up his face, having noticed the needle in his arm. Tony distracted him by producing a brightly colored hologram from his phone. Bruce smiled beatifically and beamed at Tony. "Pi is infinite," he said.

"It comes to a pretty quick end in _my_ office," DiNozzo said.

"Oh, I could go for a slice of pie," Natasha said.

"A slice of infinity," Bruce said dreamily, and then he slumped against Tony, asleep.

"No offense, but it’s kind of hard to believe you people are superheroes," DiNozzo said.

"Trust me, we feel the same way," Tony assured him.

"Perhaps it the perspective of age," Ducky said, "but it’s not hard for me to see the heroism of everyone - _everyone_ — in this room."

The two Tonys and Natasha were startled into silence. Their discomfort would have been excruciating, had Ducky not taken pity and launched into, "You know, the first recorded use of the word 'hero' refers to—"

Bruce suddenly shot up. "A sandwich!" he announced.

"Well, actually, it was—" Ducky started, just as DiNozzo said, "I could eat."

"Me, too," Natasha conceded. "I don’t suppose you can get delivery here, though," she added, looking around Ducky’s work space, which was, after all, a subterranean morgue in a federal building.

"Oh, ye of little faith," Tony said, already typing something into his phone. "Though personally, I could also use a drink, and even _I_ can’t get liquor delivered to a federal building."

"Oh, there’s no need to worry about that," Ducky said mildly, producing a very nice bottle of 12-year-old Scotch from a desk drawer. He looked at DiNozzo. "I trust this breaks no regulations? It _is_ after hours, and as a physician I can assure you that Macallan is most definitely medically indicated, under the circumstances."

"I would never argue with a medical professional," DiNozzo said, but Ducky was already pouring and passing out the drinks. 

"To heroism," Ducky said, holding up his drink.

"To cooperation among those who serve and protect," DiNozzo said, carefully raising his paper cup with the arm not tethered to an IV.

"To pi," Bruce said dreamily, rousing for a moment before slumping back onto Tony.

"I'll drink to that," Tony said. 

**3\. The New Place**

_In which a (possibly) dead guy walks into a bar. SG-1/The Good Place, Daniel and S.1 Eleanor._

Daniel looked around with equal parts confusion, resignation and deja vu. Okay; he was…somewhere, and there was a building in front of him. He thought about going in, but then stopped himself and walked carefully around the whole thing, just in case. 

Jack would have been proud, Daniel thought ruefully. Though maybe not, under the circumstances, since it seemed Daniel might be dead again.

Daniel weighed his options. The building wasn’t a Waffle House, and it was _usually_ a Waffle House, but life was about change, and so, apparently, was the afterlife. Daniel finally pushed in the front door, which stuck, and found himself in a very loud, very packed bar, all chrome and plastic and pulsing, colored strobe lights. 

"Really?" he muttered, looking up.

At that, the bar morphed into something a lot quieter and emptier, with a polished wooden bar and a number of well-worn oak tables surrounded by upholstered chairs. Guitar music drifted softly through the room. Daniels eyebrows shot up. "Umm…thanks?" he said, but no one said "You’re welcome" in any language Daniel recognized, so he made his way to the bar.

The only other person in the place, a young woman hunched moodily over a fruity drink with a tiny pink umbrella in it, squinted at him. "Are you a demon?" she asked suspiciously.

"Archeologist," Daniel said, taking the barstool next to her. "And I might be dead, though so far that’s tended to be temporary, if recurring."

"What, like gas?" the woman asked.

Daniel made a face. "I…well, yeah, kind of," he finally said. "I’m Daniel Jackson, by the way."

"Eleanor Shellstrop," the woman said. "I’m dead, too, but I don’t think that’s temporary. Also, I was a bad person, but I accidentally got sent to the Good Place, and now I want to be a good person, and not get sent to the Bad Place." She drained her glass. "Also, I’m drunk, but I don’t think that’s peally imrortant, overall."

"Probably not," Daniel said. "Though this is…actually not the first time I’ve heard about mistakes in the afterlife. But just to be clear, are we in the Good Place or the Bad Place right now?"

"I think this is like a waiting room," Eleanor said.

"Waffle House," Daniel said, half to himself.

"Waffles would be awesome," Eleanor said dreamily, and then she looked at Daniel. "Wait. You don’t look freaked out. Are you sure you’re not a demon?"

"Pretty sure," Daniel said. "I mean, I’ve done some bad things, but that wasn’t my intention. So far as I know, anyway. I’ve had amnesia, so some things are a little fuzzy." He shrugged. "But I’ve been here before. Or somewhere like this. It’s…it’s hard to explain, actually."

"Life’s complicated," Eleanor said morosely. "Even when you’re dead."

"But you’re not in the bad place," Daniel said, bumping her shoulder just a little. "And you want to be a good person. Oma would say that even a flickering candle lights the edges of the room."

"What the fork does _that_ mean?" Eleanor demanded.

Daniel wrinkled his nose. "I have no idea," he admitted.

"Oh, come on, man! Don’t you have anything useful to contribute? I mean, you have to be here for a reason, right? What should I do?"

"Well, if this is about you, you should do what you think you should do, and not what I think you should do. Though if it’s about me, then what I tell you could actually matter a great deal. It’s—"

"Oh, fork, you’re as bad as Chidi," Eleanor groused. 

"And Chidi is…?" Daniel asked, looking around the otherwise empty room before going around the bar to get a glass of water.

"He…" Eleanor waved a hand. "Philosophy. He thinks a lot." She made a face. "Really? A glass of water?"

"I left my wallet in my other…life," Daniel said. "And I don’t really deal in philosophy so much as myth."

Eleanor looked at him. "And myths are…?"

"Stories to live by," Daniel said.

"You have any that relate to this?" Eleanor asked morosely, staring down at her drink.

"They pretty much all do," Daniel said, only smiling a little.

"I hate you," Eleanor said, sliding off her barstool. She grabbed Daniel’s arm. "Come on; let’s go."

"Where are we going?" Daniel asked, amiably following where Eleanor pulled.

"I’m not listening to a bunch of old stories on an stempty tumach. Empty stomach. Oh, just move! And grab one of those bottles; we’re probably going to need a little liquor, too. Or, you know, a lot."

Daniel looked at her.

"The stories say no?" Eleanor sighed. 

"Stealing isn’t the quickest way to the Good Place, I’m guessing," Daniel said.

"Fork," Eleanor said.

Daniel looked around, patted his pockets, and, with a look of delight, unearthed a pad and a pencil. "The emphasis on tableware is new," he murmured to himself, scribbling intently, and then he followed Eleanor out the door.

**4\. Curses**

_In which an Immortal and a vengeance demon walk into a bar. Highlander/Buffy, Joe, Methos, Anya, Duncan. A love story, of sorts. *g* By the way, this one is old. As in, it was written last century._

Joe Dawson swabbed the counter and handed yet another beer to his most entrenched -- but least drunk -- customer. "So, a vengeance demon walks into a bar..."

"Trust me, Joe," Methos said wearily, accepting the fresh drink with a polite nod. "You don't want to mess with the classics. Try it like this: 'A priest, a rabbi, and a minister walked into a bar...' "

"No," Joe interrupted. "Really. A vengeance demon just walked into the bar."

Methos swiveled on the bar stool, almost falling off as a slim, dejected-looking blonde approached the counter.

"Anyanka...?"

The blonde looked him over. "I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "I don’t remember you."

"Methos," the Immortal said.

She shook her head. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

"Methos," Methos said again. "You know." He lowered his voice. " 'You live to serve me.'" He peered intently at the blonde. "I was Death on a horse," he added in his normal voice. _"Methos."_

"Oh!" Anya's face brightened, and she took the stool next to the Immortal. " _That_ Methos."

"There's more than one?" Joe asked.

"So, Methos," Anya said, having recently read a great deal of Miss Manners. "How are you?"

"I've been better," Methos admitted.

"I'm sorry," Anya said. She eyed him warily. "Not because of the Death on a horse thing, right? Look, it was a long time ago, and--"

"Oh, it's not about that," Methos assured her. "That's in the past."

"That's very understanding of you," Anya said, clearly relieved. "I mean, considering I made you a Horseman of the Apocalypse, and everything."

"At least you didn't make me the one who ate rats," Methos said, polishing off his beer and signaling to Joe for another.

"Oh, right! Caspian!" Anya smiled. "He was one of my better inspirations." She leaned toward Methos. "I won an award for him, you know."

"Well-deserved, I'm sure," Methos said.

"It was just a little one. I didn't publicize myself all the time, like some people I could mention." She accepted a white wine from Joe and took a sip. "How is he, anyway?"

"Caspian? He lost his head," Methos told her. He sighed, and began methodically tearing the label off his beer bottle.

"Oh. Sorry," Anya said. "Is that why you're...?"

"No," Methos said flatly.

"Not that I could do anything, anyway," Anya went on. "I'm not a demon anymore."

"Pity," said Methos.

"Love problems?" Anya asked, with the air of one who's heard them all before.

Methos merely nodded.

It was Anya's turn to sigh. "I know how you feel. Of course, I couldn't do anything for you. I work for broken-hearted women, and you aren't a woman."

"And what, you couldn't help out an old friend?" Methos asked, miffed.

"Well, I could make an exception," Anya conceded. "If I were still a demon, that is. But I only wreak vengeance on men."

Methos gave her a look.

"Oh, I see," said the ex-demon.

"Do you mind if I take notes here?" Joe asked.

"Did you hear the one about the bartender whose bar burned to the ground in a mysterious fire?" Methos replied.

"Okay, okay," Joe said, backing off. "You can't blame a guy for trying."

"I can blame a guy for a great many things," Methos said darkly.

"That's how I feel about Xander," Anya said, nodding. She crumpled her napkin, and then stabbed it with a toothpick.

"Xander?" Methos asked, watching with interest.

"My boyfriend. Actually, my fiance," Anya said. "He left me at the altar." She stabbed the napkin again, and then turned her attentions to a coaster.

"I see," Methos said, leaning back to what he considered a safer distance. "What did you turn him into?"

"Nothing," Anya sighed. "Yet." She cast an appraising eye at Methos. "I'm tempted, though. Sometimes I think about going back to the old days."

Methos raised his glass in a toast. "I know what you mean."

"Things were simpler then," Anya said. "You got up, you heard a few cries for vengeance, you wreaked a little havoc and wrought a little justice — it was all clear cut, you know?"

"I remember," Methos said dreamily.

"And you didn't have to pay taxes," Anya added. " _Those_ were the days."

"Well, some of us had to hang around with Kronos and Caspian," Methos reminded her.

"You deserved it. You should never have left that poor girl," Anya said. "What was her name? Sela?"

"Left her?" Methos repeated, outraged. "I didn't _leave_ her. I _died_. And when I came back to life, the villagers tried to separate me from my vital organs. I couldn't very well stay."

Anya made a face. "She never mentioned that."

"Typical," Methos said, breathing hard.

"Well, I'm sure you did something to deserve it," Anya said airily. "Men always do." She sat back on her stool and surveyed the room. "I really do miss the old days,” she said. “Things were better then. Clearer. Easier. And we didn’t have that horrible holiday with all those spooky creatures popping up everywhere.”

Methos thought a moment. “Ah,” he nodded. “Halloween.”

Anya gave him a look. “Not Halloween. Easter.” She shuddered. “I’ll bet that whole bunny thing was dreamed up by men.”

With the wisdom available only to one who has lived several thousand years, Methos held his tongue.

“I could become a demon again, you know,” Anya said. “And then I could consign all men to eternal torment."

Methos cleared his throat.

"Okay," she said. "I could consign all mortal men to eternal torment."

Joe, returning to the bar just then, cleared his throat.

"Everybody's a critic," Anya groused.

Methos stiffened as the door to the bar swung open, admitting a tall, pony-tailed man wrapped in a long coat. The man nodded briefly to the group at the bar, and then retreated moodily to a dark table across the room.

"Now him," Anya said admiringly, "He--"

"Leave him alone," Methos interrupted.

Anya looked at him. "Is _he_ the one? Oh, you _are_ in trouble."

"Look," Methos said, "just because his Chronicles don't say--"

"Not that," Anya interrupted. "It's just that he's been cursed."

"Vengeance demon?" Joe asked.

"Three vengeance demons," Anya said. "Also a witch and a gypsy."

"Wow," Joe said.

"He'll _never_ find happiness with a woman," Anya said.

"You don't say," Methos said, sliding off his barstool and casting an appraising eye across the room.

"Also," Anya went on "the IRS wants to talk to him, and you know how _they_ are."

"I have to go," Methos said, never even glancing at his companions at the bar. "Things to do, Immortals to see. Anya, good luck with the whole demon thing. And Joe, put her drinks on my tab."

"Yeah, yeah," Joe said as Methos moved away.

"You're a bartender," Anya said to Joe. "And bartenders are supposed to give good advice. Advise me."

"I don't th---" Joe began.

Anya gave him a look

.Joe sighed. "Okay. This Xander. Do you love him?"

Anya nodded.

"Well, then," Joe said, pouring her another white wine. "There's only one thing you can do."

"I know," Anya whined, "but I don't _want_ to roast his entrails."

"Roast his-- no, not that!" Joe said. "No, I mean…you have to talk to him."

"About what?"

"About how you feel. What you want."

"And that will make me feel better than slowly roasting his internal organs over an open fire?"

"Maybe not," Joe said. "But it's neater. And if there’s a problem between you that you can fix, that’s the only way to find out."

"It's not as easy as the old ways," Anya said.

"No, I suppose not."

Anya finished off her drink, nodded, and stood up with unwavering determination of someone who’s made a decision.

"So, what are you going to do?" Joe asked, wondering if he should warn someone, and what would happen if he tried.

"First," Anya said, “I’m going to follow tradition."

Joe winced. "Look, the laws are pretty strict about setting fires in public, so—"

Anya shook her head impatiently. "No. Vodka, a gallon of ice cream, and a movie."

"And then…?" Joe asked.

"I don’t know," Anya admitted. "Things have changed since the old days. But maybe I’ve changed, too." She sighed. "It’s all very confusing."

"Yeah, well, love is like that. _Life_ is like that."

"Oh!" Anya said. "I thought it was just me. It’s like this for _everyone_? I don’t know how you all get along without vengeance demons."

"Luckily," Joe said, "we have bars."

**5\. Hop-Scotch**

_In which a billionaire hurtles into another reality, and encounters Scotch and a Scot. Iron Man (or MCU)/ST:ToS. Post CA:CW, probably._

"I don’t think that’s how it works," Reed said.

"Time’s up," Tony said grimly. "Fate of the universe, and all that."

"Let me at least adjust the—" Reed began, but Tony had already touched the glowing orb, and…

…

….

…….

……….

He landed hard, on his hands and knees, gasping for breath and more than a little sick to his stomach. A pair of legs moved into his line of vision; black boots, black flared pants. Tony wondered if he’d ended up in the 1960s, and how much he’d have to adjust his plans if he had.

"Ye shouldn’t be here, laddie," a voice said.

"And yet I am," Tony said, trying hard to keep the burger he’d had for lunch from making an unfortunate return appearance. "Where exactly _am_ I?"

"The engine room of the Starship Enterprise," the voice said with some pride, and no small shading of _well, d’uh_.

Tony had a brief moment of _WTF??_ and then _Huh,_ and then a slightly longer moment to recalibrate his assumptions, options, and understanding of reality and the space-time continuum. "Which one?" he asked when he was done.

"Laddie, there’s only one."

Tony raised his head cautiously, looked around, and carefully got to his feet. "Actually," he began, but thought better of it. There were rules about that sort of thing, weren’t there? Sometimes you were _supposed_ to keep secrets. He focused instead on the row of bottles on the shelf over the…whatever that thing was. "You’ve got liquor in the engine room," he observed. "Isn’t that a no-no?" He peered at the other man. "Is that why you haven’t sounded the alarm? You’re a few sheets to the wind?"

The man brought himself to his full height, affronted. "I’m Montgomery Scott, Chief Engineer of the USS Enterprise, laddie, and you’ll do well to keep a civil tongue in your head." 

"Tony Stark," Tony said, extending his hand. "I’m a genius, and an engineer, but I’m afraid keeping a civil tongue isn’t one of my many talents. No offense meant, Chief Engineer Scott."

"Scotty," he said, shaking Tony’s hand. "And let’s just say…you’re not the first to drop in here unannounced." 

"Scotty," Tony repeated. _Not the first what?_ he wondered. _Not the first Tony Stark?_ He shook his head; there wasn’t time for that now. "It’s just I’m sort of…under some stress, what with the world-threatening events happening in my reality, which is, of course, not the reality I’m in presently. And also, in my reality, you’re a character in a TV show, not a real person. And it is a little confusing, your not sounding an alarm when a strange guy materializes in your engine room. Which contains several bottles of Scotch, though not very good Scotch."

"Well, no," Scotty said. "That would be a waste, wouldn’t it?"

Tony looked at him. "Because you’re using it to…reduce the atmospheric transference of the electrical conduit system?"

Scotty grinned. "Aye, so you really _are_ an engineer."

"Do you always use crappy Scotch to reduce transference issues?"

"No, but we’re four hundred light years from the nearest supply of what we do use, and dilithium crystals can only take so much atmospheric transference before they blow."

"And how did you figure out Scotch would………" Tony stopped short. "But…that’s it! Atmospheric transference through a randomized set of oscillating coils, amplified by the crystals in…" His eyes clouded over. "I need to tell Reed. I need to get home. And I need…"

"Yes, laddie?" Scotty asked, with a level of bemused calm Tony had only heard before from Pepper.

"A drink," Tony said. "I _really_ need a drink."

"Well, son," Scotty said, "that can be arranged."

**6\. In a Word**

_In which a god, a rabbit, a warrior and the Hulk walk into a bar. Avengers/Thor/GotG. Thor, the Valkyrie, Bruce, Rocket. This was written long before Endgame came out, when everybody living happily-ever-after seemed like a reasonable outcome. So this is post-IW, but there's no IW angst. Consider it an AU — or the product of denial, optimism, or a few trips to the bar. The bar in this particular ficlet, by the way, is near the Avengers Compound, where everyone reunited after the Snap, took a couple of hours to recuperate and/or punch someone, as needed, and then came up with a fool-proof scheme to defeat Thanos and reverse the Snap, which they'll be putting into effect in the next day or two._

Thor was clearly irritated as he pushed open the door to the — thankfully empty — bar, but Val overrode Bruce’s objections, pushed him after Thor, set him at a table, and grabbed a couple of pitchers and four mugs in record time. 

Rocket, of course, would _not_ shut up.

"I’m just saying," he said, "that it’s _stupid._ Even Quill wouldn’t have…" He filled a mug for Thor, and one for himself. Val, meanwhile, was already on her second. "It’s just stupid," he repeated yet again.

"Have a care, Rabbit," Thor glowered, but Rocket wasn’t having it.

"No, but… _worthy_! Who sold you that crap?"

Thor sniffed. "Odin All-Father," he said, and then downed his beer.

Rocket leaned forward over the dark wooden table, pushing Valkyrie’s hand out of the way so he could reach the peanuts. "And who’s that? Some carnival conman?"

Thor glared at him, but accepted the peanut Rocket tossed his way. "He is the All- Father," Thor said, as if that were explanation enough. "He would not lie."

Bruce looked up then from the napkin he was scrubbing equations on. "Loki…?" he said tentatively.

"The All-Father would not lie about _important_ things," Thor amended.

" _Loki_ ," Bruce said more insistently, and Val gave Thor a look.

"But it’s _written_ ," Thor whined.

"That something this All-Daddy told you, too?" Rocket asked. "Because legends, and 'the stories of our people,' yeah, no one _ever_ has an axe to grind writing those things."

Val downed her drink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "He speaks truth," she said, and burped.

Thor turned a beseeching look on Bruce, who raised his hands placatingly. "I, uh…well, yeah," he said. "Sorry, Thor."

"But…I see no purpose for such a deception," Thor said plaintively.

"Give a guy a weapon and tell him he’s the only one special enough to use it, he’s gonna make sure he masters it," Rocket observed. "And he’s gonna listen good to the guy who gave it to him. 'Cause he's gonna think that guy really _saw_ him, you know? And he’s gonna think that if he’s the only one good enough to use the thing, then the side he’s on, well, that must be good, too."

"Whether it’s a hammer or…or a shield," Bruce murmured thoughtfully. "If you think you’re worthy, you think the side you’re on is…well, the worthy side."

"Yeah, and there’s that word, worthy," Rocket said scathingly. "What does that even _mean_?"

"Right and true. Noble. Valorous. Brave. _Worthy_ ," Thor said slowly and loudly, as though that might make them understand.

"You know," Bruce said, idly filling his mug, "in a place called Halifax, in Nova Scotia — that’s in Canada, another country on this planet — there’s a statue and a plaque commemorating a glorious patriot and hero."

"Yes! Exactly!" Thor said, beaming at Bruce. _"Worthy!"_

"His name was Benedict Arnold," Bruce went on poking a finger in the foam in his mug, and then pushing the mug away. "Here in the United States, he’s considered one of the country’s greatest traitors."

"Yes! Valor and honor — wait, what?" Thor said.

"Whether you see someone as a hero or a traitor — as worthy or not — depends on the side you’re on," Val translated. "An Asgardian hero is not so heroic to the Jotunn."

"But—" Thor began, gesturing so emphatically that he sent his empty beer mug careening across the table.

Val caught it neatly, refilled it from the pitcher, and nudged it back over to Thor.

"The whole 'worthy' thing," Rocket said, cutting him off. "I don’t know, but it sounds like a recruiting spiel to me. Something to get you to sign up, sign on, and fight somebody else’s war."

"I…I…" Thor began, but then he gave up, shrinking into the booth — if a man of his size could be said to shrink — and looking down at his hands.

"Or not," Bruce said kindly after a moment, giving Val and Rocket a quelling — and slightly green — look. "It’s probably like everything else — complicated. Even legends can have a kernel of truth."

"Oh, come on," Rocket said. "You can’t tell me—"

"There is the Hulk, and there is Bruce," Val broke in. "Loki sowed discord and mischief, and also saved Thor’s life. I have ridden in battle, and now," she raised her mug, "I drink in a bar. There are many truths in all of us, and where you stand may depend on where, at that moment, you sit."

"That…that was lovely," Bruce said.

"Thank you, Valkyrie of legend, our boon companion," Thor said gravely.

"Yeah, whatever," Rocket said, and he drained Bruce’s beer. "I mean, that was wordy, but I guess it’s like my pal used to say, 'I am Groot.'"

"Wise words," Val said, lifting her mug.

"Pithy," Bruce agreed, lifting his own glass, though Rocket had neglected to refill it.

"I would drink to that," Thor said. "And to Mjolnir."

"Mjolnir was a _hammer_ ," Rocket groused.

"Groot was a tree," Val countered.

"All right, fair enough," Rocket said. "But I ain’t toasting nobody’s _worthiness_."

"To all of us, then," Val said. "To those we have lost, and those we still have, to the moments when we are worthy, and to those when we fall short, but most of all—"

She pitched forward, having put away not only several beers but, in the hours before they’d reached the bar, a bottle of vodka and a few Long Island Iced Teas.

"Well spoken," Thor said over Val’s soft snores.

"The Big Guy thinks there should be less talking and more smashing," Bruce said.

Rocket filled his mug with the last of the beer and downed it. "Yeah, well," he said, "It sounds like he’ll be getting his chance soon. And in the meantime, I am Groot, you know? I am Groot."

END


End file.
